


nobody needs to know

by lifefindsaway



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Rating May Change, Secret Relationship, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10314578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifefindsaway/pseuds/lifefindsaway
Summary: John doesn't know what this is, but he's going to see it through to the end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infearfulday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infearfulday/gifts).



> Updates will be irregular, but as frequent as I can manage. I have no idea where this is going, so we're going to have fun figuring that out together. Tags, ratings, and relationships may change as the story progresses.

John can't carry a tune in a bucket. He knows, because his father made a point of telling him in no uncertain terms that he cannot sing. Not that it has ever stopped John from singing; when he's happy, when it's too quiet, he'll hum to himself, start singing without meaning to or realizing it. The first time he'd done that around Alex, Alex had teased him mercilessly about it, then started requesting increasingly more difficult and ridiculous songs when, with great delight, he'd realized John actually  _would_ sing almost anything he asked him to. When John is feeling up to it, the office isn't too quiet, and he's feeling especially daring, he will tackle the stupid arias and ballads that Alex asks to hear. Usually, he listens to music, silently mouths along, and doesn't indulge Alex. 

He stays late, because Alex isn't the only one dedicated to his job, and John really believes in the work Washington--no,  _George_  ("Please, call me George")--is trying to do. George hasn't made any noise about running for POTUS, or, even, for putting his name out there for VP, but. John grew up the son of a politician. He knows, even if George doesn't really know yet, that eventually George is going to run, and that he's probably going to be the next president. 

All the more reason to work hard now, really.

John is deep into an email chain that he has been forced into with the Republican HQ in town, trying to figure out the best way to tell Jefferson to fuck off without pulling an Alex and using those exact words. To counter the dull, tedious work that he patiently working through, he's listening to some of his mother's favorite music. He doesn't do that often. It hurts, usually, to think of her, and John tends to fixate more on her passing than on any of the happy moments they had together while she was alive, but sometimes listening to her music helps. Sometimes it makes it feel like she's there with him, the illusion of her presence one of the few things that has ever successfully calmed him down and kept him focused.

He loses track of time for a little while, steadily going from one email, to the next, to the next. He fills out his calendar, plans the rest of his week, then his month. Double checks his schedule with the calendar he shares with Alex and George and Lafayette; he doesn't usually go with George if and when George has to make public appearances, but he likes to keep those days relatively free, just in case.

He doesn't hear the knock at the door.

What he does hear is a rich, deep voice that doesn't sound a thing like Robert Anderson. It takes a moment for John to recognize the disparity in what he's hearing through his headphones and what he's hearing in his office, but when it occurs to him that someone else is in the room, he startles so badly he nearly tips over the cup of coffee he'd mistakenly decided was a good idea around 5 or so. He catches the mug, sets it well out of the way of his keyboard, tugs his earbuds out, and twirls around in his chair.

George is still singing, propped up in the doorway of John's office. He completely fills up the space, nearly the size of the door. John doesn't think about that, and he absolutely doesn't shiver as he contemplates how big George is and how big he's not. George stops singing when he has John's attention, though his little smile doesn't disappear.

"Been a long, long time since I've heard that song," George remarks. "It's old enough, I'm surprised you know it."

John's face burns and he's pretty sure he's bright red. "My mama liked The Caravans," he says, by way of explanation. "We used to sing a lot of their songs when I was a kid." That had stopped later on, when it was just John and his dad and his brothers and sisters. They'd all become a little more solemn, and little more grown up after they lost her.

"Why are you still here?" George asks, and John doesn't think it's his imagination that George's voice sounds especially gentle. "It's going on eight. I thought Alex was the only one I had to run out the door at five."

"I just wanted to get ahead while I could," John said. He doesn't add that he didn't realize it had gotten so late. It doesn't matter anyway. "I'll just--I've got a thing I want to finish, and then I'll grab my stuff and go. Sorry if I kept you here...?" It comes out as a question because, actually, John doesn't know what George is doing here this late. He doesn't have any meetings tomorrow, but. He's rather punctual when it comes to getting in and leaving the office every day, so long as his schedule permits it.

George hums, but he doesn't seem satisfied with John's answer.

"Or," John amends, "I can grab my stuff now, I guess, and leave now."

"That's better," George says. He winks at John, which throws him for a loop, then says, "Have you eaten? I don't remember seeing you around lunch."

George, John knows, had spent his lunch listening to Alex and Burr go at each other (again). John knows this, because he shares an office with Alex, and he'd eaten at his desk specifically so he could miss out on that spectacle. Though it hadn't mattered much, because Alex had come in after lunch and then had to give John a play-by-play of everything Burr had said, and every single one of George's expressions. Mostly, John had thought, George had sounded exasperated, Burr had sounded resigned to lose their argument, and Alex had been all over the place. Again.

And people call John reckless. Hah. At least--at work, anyway--he knows when to pick his battles.

"I ate," John says. It's not quite a lie. He'd had a cup of yogurt while Alex had complained at him.

"Son," George says reprovingly. It makes John's stomach flip strangely. He doesn't examine that too closely. George sighs wearily, probably tired of working with children, if John had to guess, and pushes away from the door jamb. He straightens his jacket, buttons the top button with one hand. John absolutely doesn't stare, and his blush, which had only just started to cool off, doesn't deepen when he gets caught. "Come on," George says. "We're going out."

"Sir?"

"Get your things, John."

Bewildered, John grabs his coat on autopilot, shuts down his computer, gathers the bag he totes to and from work. He quietly follows George out of the empty office, less than a foot between them as they wind through desks, take the stairs down three flights to the street. It's cold out, and dark, and John juggles his stuff so he can pull his coat on and sling his bag across his chest. His hair, which had been in a mostly-presentable bun is a bit of a mess. He tugs the hair tie out so he can run his fingers through the curls and pull his hair back into a neater ponytail.

George waits patiently a moment, watching John intently, then puts his hand on John's lower back, steps closer, and deliberately propels him forward, leading the way, as he says, "I know this little place a block or so up the way. I called earlier, and they've saved a table for me. I think you'll like it. Excellent steaks, and a wide selection of wine..."

John glances up at his boss, has the fleeting feeling that this might actually be a date and not dinner between coworkers, and bites his lip. Well, hell. He decides, for once, that caution is the better part of valor and that it's better not to get ahead of himself, in case he's wrong or misinterpreting the situation. He probably is, anyway. He nods, humming in agreement now and then, when George leaves him an opening in which he is expected to speak, and follows George's lead.

It's certainly going to be an interesting evening.

***

They're shown to a table upstairs. It's pretty much a separate room, thick curtains hanging over the window. The tablecloth is fabric, the walls are covered in nice wallpaper. The furniture is nice. It feels more like being in a quiet dining room at someone's house than in a restaurant--which is how John knows this place is expensive. The other giveaway is the menus, which don't have any prices listed. He swallows thickly. He's got money, his father's always made sure of it, and his job pays reasonably well, but this isn't the sort of place he comes on his own regularly.  

He sits across from George, as George waves at him to, feels a little self-conscious. He's dressed for work, but not for a fancy restaurant. George, meanwhile, looks perfectly at home. John can't actually imagine any place George might go and  _not_ look perfectly comfortable. It's a little infuriating, and incredibly fascinating.

Actually, John realizes, this restaurant reminds him of the places his father used to take him when he was a child, John sweating and pulling at too-tight ties as he sat through his father's business meetings, ostensibly "learning politics," instead of getting to go out and play like he really wanted. George even looks a little like his father in his old-fashioned suit (he recalls, once, Lafayette mentioning during working hours trying to get George to update his look; that hadn't gone over well, apparently, because George never had changed his suits) and the way he leans back in his chair, one arm casually hooked over the back, the other resting on the tabletop, tapping a thoughtful, irregular rhythm.

"You know," George says, after he's ordered wine for their table, "I do believe this is the first we've ever spent any time together outside of the office and business hours."

"We went for drinks once," John says. "On Ben's birthday."

George shakes his head. "I mean one-on-one. It occurs to me I don't know really know anything about you, apart from what I read on your resume, and what you told me yourself during your interview."

That had been a rigorous process. John had gone through a couple dozen hoops and endured an endless meeting with first Lafayette, then Burr and Alex, before he'd actually met George and gotten that final interview that sealed the deal and guaranteed John employment, at least for the rest of George's term in office. And beyond, maybe, if--no,  _when_  George beats out Adams and wins a first term in the White House. John, maybe, has been daydreaming a little about what working there will be like, pretty confident that he's proven himself useful enough to make the transition to George's administration.

"Well," John says after a moment, "what do you want to know, sir?"

"George," George says. "And, I don't know. Let's start with your family, maybe? I know your father quite well, but I'd never heard a word about your mother until this afternoon."

John shifts uncomfortably. Alex knows she's dead, because they'd bonded over their dead mothers, but he doesn't think anyone else knows. Alex wouldn't have told anyone else unless he'd known it was cool with John, which it emphatically is  _not_. Of course, it's his own fault that George should be curious now, because he was the one to bring her up in the office. He didn't have to do that. He shouldn't have, except that it had been a shock to find George singing in his office, and he'd been caught off-guard, and--

"John?"

"I don't know that there's much to say, sir."

"George," George says again. But his face softens and he seems to understand what John isn't saying. He clears his throat, picks up his wine glass, twirls the wine inside and watches it slide smoothly from side to side. He does everything but sniff at the glass and comment on the bouquet, which John finds a little amusing. A moment of levity in what quickly has become a heavy conversation. "I lost my Martha, oh, eight years ago now, it must be. God, it doesn't feel like any time has passed at all." He drinks deeply from his glass. John imagines he can hear a dozen professional wine-tasters scream in agony, picks up his own glass and follows suit. "Time doesn't always heal those wounds."

"My da--my father," John corrects himself; for some reason he can't quite place his finger on, he is highly uncomfortable calling his father "daddy" in front of George; he tries not to dwell too much on it, "did a good job with me and my brothers and sisters, all things considered, I guess. There were a lot of us, and we were all pretty young, so, you know. He juggled that and work." They'd had a lot of nannies, but there's the official narrative his father likes to push, and he  _did_ care for John and his brothers and sisters to the best of his ability, just. Not in a very hands-on way.

"Henry always struck me as a good man," George says carefully. "Perhaps a little misguided at times, but I don't think I have to tell you that politics are a tough business down in your neck of the woods."

An understatement.

They both fall silent, but it isn't awkward like John might expect. Instead, it's a sort of companionable silence. They drink their wine, they share an appetizer. George quietly recommends items from the menu as they look it over and try to settle on a meal. John lets George order for him when the waiter returns, because he's tired of reading, can hardly focus on the words, and he knows George won't steer him wrong.

"You sing very well," George says after a while.

"Hah," John feels a little heat on his cheeks. "Yeah, no, I know. I try to keep it to myself, but I didn't realize I was doing it, and, even if I'd known, I thought everyone on my side of the building was gone for the day--"

"I mean it sincerely," George cuts in. "You have a lovely voice. I enjoyed listening to you."

John's blush deepens. He's blushed more in under two hours than he probably has in his entire life. He doesn't know what that says about him, or about George. He rubs the back of his neck, ducks his head. Isn't sure what to say to that.

"I felt bad interrupting you," George continues, "but it really was getting late, and I had a feeling you hadn't eaten in far too long."

"Thank you," John murmurs, almost shyly. Then, "I usually do eat, I just, Alex was kind of a pain today and I couldn't focus on work when he was in there with me, so I did as much as I could during lunch while he was going head-to-head with Burr. Again. I don't even know what the point of that is anymore. Burr doesn't play along, so it can't even be fun."

George smiles a little while John relaxes and starts talking more freely.

"I asked him to just, like, leave Burr alone, but that's about as likely as hell freezing over. You know what they're like. Bless his heart, Alex is a good guy, you know? But he just doesn't know when to step back and take a breath." John doesn't either, in the right situation, which is why he's such good friends with Alex, but George doesn't need to know that. John has taken great pains to present only his best side to him. It's not really so dire, but he's always felt one misstep would mean the end of his career, and John isn't ready for that. He's got a million things he wants to achieve before he's done with the political madhouse.

George laughs, and they complain about Alex for a little while--in a friendly, we-love-him-but-for-the-love-of-God, exasperated sort of way--and then the waiter returns with their mains. George refills their wine glasses while John sips at his water, and they're both quiet again as they tuck into the steaks George had selected for both of them.

It's good. Really good. It reminds John of the cows they used to have slaughtered on his family's land, back when his grandparents were alive and still trying to raise cattle. When they'd passed, within about a year of each other, John's mother had been very sad. He still remembers trying once to comfort her: they'd both ended up curled up on his parents bed, his mother holding him tightly and running gentle fingers through his hair as they both cried about not getting anymore fresh steaks and hamburgers. No one else in his family had really understood that, but, then, no one else had really understood him the way his mother had.

John sits back heavily in his chair when he's finished, his stomach so full he could probably fall asleep right there in his chair without much effort. He hasn't eaten so much or so well in a long time. And, as their plates are cleared up and they're shown to another room for dessert, John knows he won't be eating like this again for a while. He's already hinted at paying for his half of the meal, and George has already come outright and told him that he won't be paying.

The dessert room is sort of more of a lounge. There's still a table, it's still close and intimate, but it's more of a booth in a larger room in which there are other people. Soft music plays from speakers John can't see. This time he sits beside George, and the two of them huddle over the dessert menu together, one of George's big fingers trailing down the descriptions of sweets that make John's stomach ache as he contemplates finding room for more food.

It should feel weird sitting this close to his boss--they're almost pressed together from hip to shoulder--but it doesn't. If anything, John wants to get closer. He wants to feel those large hands on his, or on his shoulder, or his thigh, or--

"Banana," John says, a little too enthusiastically, desperate to derail that train of thought. "Banana cream sounds good."

"My favorite," George says. He lights up, seems pleased. John doesn't think about what else George might like.

The mood shifts, though John isn't sure whether the tension he's feeling is real, is something that George can also sense, or whether it's something that's completely in his own mind, a result of the super inappropriate things he hadn't been able to keep himself from thinking. He gets quiet, which George  _does_ seem to notice, but thankfully doesn't comment on, and he remains quiet as they split a banana cream, custard, tart-thing that John doesn't know how to describe and would never have picked ordinarily, had he actually been paying attention to what he was ordering. It's good, but John doesn't eat more than a few bites. Can't eat more than a few bites, because he finds himself watching George take bites, lick his spoon clean.

Maybe, just maybe, John's had a little too much wine. They'd gone through a bottle upstairs, but George'd had a lot of it himself, and he isn't tipsy. He's bigger too, though.

John's had too much wine.

He comes to this conclusion around the time George finishes their dessert and pays the check. He doesn't let John see it, which is yet another way John knows this place was too expensive for him to blink at, then rises, stretching and yawning as he stands. John doesn't watch the way his back arches, and he doesn't wait intently for the little slip of skin that shows when George raises his arms over his head.

Instead, John gets to his feet, lets George escort him to the front of the building. They collect their coats and John's bag from coat check, and step back outside into the cool evening air. It is refreshing; John's face is warm, and he can feel a little sweat beaded along his neck under his ponytail. He could be hot from blushing, or from wine, or from any combination of other things. He doesn't know and doesn't really care. He tips his head back to look at the sky. The one thing that he really misses about home is the stars. Even with light pollution from the city, he'd still been able to see the stars at night. Here, there are so many street lights and buildings that stay bright nearly all the time that he can't see anything except the moon, and even that is shrouded in clouds tonight.

George clears his throat. John, head still tilted back, face to the sky, looks askance at him.

"Thank you for joining me tonight, John. I very much enjoyed your company."

John puffs out a breath. It isn't cold enough to fog in front of him, but he can picture what it'd look like if it were. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then looks at George properly.

"I'd say 'Let's do this again sometime,'" George says, "but I don't want you staying that late in the office again unless we're all there."

"Thank you for dinner," John says. It isn't a promise not to stay late again. They both know it's going to happen again, and that it's more a matter of "when" than "if." He holds out a hand, because he's not sure what else to do. George takes it in both of his. John's words die in his throat. George's hands are so much larger than his own, and they're so warm and strong. John can feel the strength there, and George is doing nothing more than holding his hand. He's not even squeezing. John stares dumbly at their hands for a long beat before he manages to choke out, "I really appreciate it, sir. Thank you."

George's hands linger a moment, then he lets go of John, to John's great dismay. He feels colder now than he did before George touched him.

The cab George called for inside pulls up to the curb, and George opens the door for John. He'd offered to pay for that too, but John wouldn't let him. John climbs in, looks up at George, looming in the door of the cab, larger than life. John's struck with the urge to invite George home with him, but that crosses all sorts of boundaries, and so he just smiles and says, again, "Thank you for dinner. That was--thanks. That was fantastic."

"I'll see you tomorrow," George says, a statement and the faintest hint of a promise of...something John can't identify. He closes the door, steps back, tucks his hands in his pockets, apparently content to wait until he's sure John is safely on his way home.

As the cab pulls away from the curb, John watches him grow smaller from out of the back window.


End file.
